Of Loss and Yearning
by IckleMollykins
Summary: "His eyes met hers, like ice on fire, and Draco suddenly hated her even more for her brutal honesty. He pushed his half-drunken tea away, adamant about proving his feelings toward her and her words."


Draco was only certain about one thing: how uncommonly unstable he was at that precise moment. He wasn't sure why he had chosen to Apparate here, of all places or why he had thought of Potter in the first place. But he was fairly confident that Potter would be a little more knowledgeable about how to let go than he, Draco, was, if only because Potter dealt with it so much in his early life. He was doing this out of spite, really, not anything else: he was so well apt at compartmentalizing his life that he didn't like the fact that this certain aspect kept haunting him, no matter how many glasses of Firewhiskey he drank at night.

Stepping over the stiff snow, Draco's feet only seeped in ever so slightly, elicit an ungraceful _crunch _with every bit of pressure applied to his footing. When he reached the door, he didn't even bother to knock. In his head, his mother frowned down on him; she had taught him better than this, he knew, but at the given moment, all his manners left him and he barged in without so much as a second's thought.

"Potter," he said coldly, demandingly, to the _Prophet _he was holding before him at the kitchen table. Draco made sure to place an evident sneer on his face. He was not here to lose any of his remaining dignity tonight.

The paper lowered and Draco quickly discovered that it was Ginny who he had walked in on. He hastily corrected himself.

"Weasley."

Ginny smiled humorlessly at him.

"No, you had it right the first time." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest, her toothless smile mocking Draco so harshly that he considered leaving. With a disgruntled sigh, Draco idly wondered why she wasn't surprised to see him. He'd never before willingly conversed with the family since they had left school all those years ago. And he'd certainly never sought out Potter unless to bully him, which he was explicitly not here to do.

"Right," said Draco, running a hand over his receding hairline. He felt so tired all of the sudden, as if Apparating here and then standing in the presence of Ginevra Potter was downright exhausting. Without invitation, he took the seat across from her.

"Can I help you?" Ginny asked slowly, with raised brows. Her confusion was evidently etched on her face. Draco watched as she worried her lip, and he was struck by how young she looked doing so. Having played Quidditch professionally for a few years she was still in decent shape, despite the fact she had had three kids. Her hair wasn't quite the flaming shade of red it once was, but it was by no means too much lighter. Had Draco not been married to such a lovely wife himself (and had Weasley—no, Potter—not been a filthy blood traitor) he might had considered her beautiful.

"Is your husband home?" He had tried and failed to throw out the words 'your husband' with a delicate grace. Instead they were offered with coldness and a slightly unforgiving edge.

"No. He isn't." At her words, Draco had pounded his fist loudly on the table, causing Ginny to jump in response.

"Well, he'll be back soon, I suppose?" He was beginning to get restless now, so much so that he had forgotten to deliver his words with that iconic icy drawl. Instead, they were needy, wobbly, and exceptionally shrill as a result.

"I dunno," said Ginny, her eyes narrowing in scrutiny at the blond man before here. "He took the kids out Christmas shopping. They're getting me jewelry I think, could take a while. Harry usually always second-guesses himself."

Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring the pretty smile now blossoming on the red head's face. He hadn't come here to listen to this. Swiftly, he pushed back his chair, the loud _screech _reminding him just how careless and tactless he was being. He muttered a quick, "I'll be off, then," before making his way—quite unsteadily, Ginny noticed—to the door.

"Malfoy, is everything alright?"

He wanted to draw his wand and curse her for asking such a stupid question. He'd drunkenly come by to ask Potter for help, animosity aside; he bloody well wasn't alright. Then he suddenly felt a warm hand on his left arm, and even though Draco had flinched at the contact, it seemed to sober him. His fingers no longer itched for his thin stick of wood, the tenseness he had been feeling seemed to leave him almost entirely. With a calm, stony, expression, and nearly toneless voice, Draco spoke.

"My father's dead."

Ginny withdrew her hand from his arm in an abrupt swooping motion. Draco saw her face change from shock to sympathy to something along the lines of relief in a matter of minutes. It took a while for him to remember that she had very closely died at the hand of his father in only her first year at Hogwarts.

"So you came here to see Harry to…" her voice tailed off. How was she supposed to say it?

"Well, Potter's certainly lost his share of loved ones, you know." Unable to help himself, Draco sneered, though he suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

Anger flashed through the small redhead's bright brown eyes. She took a step back before rounding on him.

"Unbelievable," she spat. "After everything you've done. Harry even saved your life and you have the audacity to barge in here and ask for a favor? Who do you think you are?"

Draco's eyes darkened.

"Don't you for one minute think I _want _to be here! Believe me, I'd rather be listening to my son talk about the stupid adventures he goes on with your son, _Albus, _at school."

"Ha!" exclaimed Ginny, throwing her head back in a bark-like laugh, reminiscent of Sirius. "You've probably been waiting to throw that at me since you walked in the door. Admit it, you can't _stand _the fact that our sons our friends."

Draco closed the small gap between them with such ferocity that Ginny felt the urge to draw her wand. Standing her ground, however, she boldly kept her gaze strong, never once wavering in fear.

"I love my son very much," he spit back slowly, harshly. But even Ginny couldn't deny the truth behind the words. "No matter whom he chooses to befriend. Even if my father—"

He stopped speaking in such swift abruptness that Ginny wondered foolishly if he'd been hit with a Silencing Charm. She took a deep breath before carefully leading him back to the kitchen table. Idly, she made a pot of tea, with only the silence for company. When she slid Draco his steaming mug, he didn't even say thank you. It should have bothered her, but she knew all too well what he was going through, and manners tended to be the first thing one forgot when dealing with a loss. It was almost like you were given permission to be extra selfish, and Draco—who was already selfish enough—seemed to become even more so.

"I lost a brother, you know," said Ginny quietly, for the silence had gotten too loud for her liking, and listening to the dainty way he sipped his tea drove her mad.

Not meeting her eyes Draco spoke even more softly than his companion, "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Forget."

For lack of a better term, Ginny could feel her heart swelling. Draco Malfoy was by no means anything more than a despicable person, but as she saw his frail body quake in a small semblance of a sob and how his gray eyes filled unceremoniously with tears, she felt the sudden urge to hold him. She took a deep breath before answering him.

"You don't."

His eyes met hers, like ice on fire, and Draco suddenly hated her even more for her brutal honesty. He pushed his half-drunken tea away, adamant about proving his feelings toward her and her words.

"I should hope you wouldn't want to forget him," continued Ginny, despite the fact that she hated speaking about Lucius Malfoy like this. "I mean, why would you want to? He raised you, didn't he? Taught you everything he knows, set an example for you, loved you. You'd be doing him a disservice if you pretended it didn't happen. And being a Malfoy I'm sure you would never want to try to wrong your father even after his death."

Draco studied her auspiciously as she spoke, watching her pretty mouth form ever word articulately. Even the fact that she was a blood traitor didn't seem to bother him at that moment.

"After Fred's death, we all tried to ignore it. But…well, you knew what he was like, it was completely impossible to do so. The house suddenly seemed quieter and no one seemed to be laughing as much. It was blatantly obvious the void we were all left with. And poor George….Anyway, it sounds stupid but time really does help. And talking." Ginny paused, thinking. "So does alcohol, but judging by the way you smell like Firewhiskey, I'd say you learned that one fairly quickly."

Draco offered a small smile that he was sure came out looking like a sneer, admiring the way her voice had softened while she'd been talking about her dead brother, and how the way she had been looking so intently at the floor that her eyes had achieved a sudden glow about them. He felt the sickening desire to kiss her.

So he did.

She was still talking when he did so, rambling on about a time when Fred did this and then that happened, but Draco hadn't been listening. He was so utterly conflicted with what was happening that as his lips briefly touched hers in a soft semblance of a kiss he never seemed to register the fact that she had responded favorably.

"Why'd you do that?" Ginny whispered, her cheeks flushing the shade of her hair.

Draco shrugged, downing the remnants of his now tepid tea.

"To get you to shut up," he stated simply, even though he felt more unstable now than he had before he had walked into the Potter's kitchen. He stood up swiftly. "Well, thank you for those wise words of dealing with grief, Weasley," he continued sardonically, ignoring her as she muttered darkly, "It's Potter," over and over again.

Draco left as soon as he had come, breaking out, just as he had barged in, now only certain about one more thing: he would never set foot in that house again, or go anywhere else in the same vicinity as Ginevra Potter if he could help it.

When Harry had finally managed to come home, Ginny was still at the kitchen table, the _Prophet _lying completely forgotten in front of her. She clung her mug tightly in one hand while the fingers of her other hand lightly touched her lips, when the door had opened so suddenly that Ginny stupidly thought Draco had come back for more.

Ginny looked up, taking note of Harry's beautiful, sheepish grin as he held a small bag in his hand while James and Albus hit each other over the head with their tubes of wrapping paper. Lily stumbled in tiredly, using Teddy as a support to lean on.

"The gift we've all picked out for you is just brilliant, Gin, but," a mischievous expression crossed his face, "you'll have to wait until Christmas to open it."

"Yeah, and no peeking," said Teddy, wagging a finger at her.

"Oh, of course not," countered, Ginny, extending her arms for each of her children.

After Teddy left and Ginny and Harry got James, Albus, and Lily finally settled into bed, Harry carefully wrapped his arms around his wife, taking in her flowery scent.

"What did you do while we were gone? Anything exciting happen?"

Ginny looked up into her husband's beautiful green eyes, so unlike the stony gray she found herself staring at for far too long that night.

"No," she said. Because, even though something had, she knew nothing else ever would.


End file.
